


Vincerò

by backfourteen



Series: Lily white [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Currently fucking obsessed with this pairing, England National Team, Euro 2016, France - Freeform, Harty loves classical music, M/M, three lions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-18 00:47:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7292770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backfourteen/pseuds/backfourteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days between Wales and Slovakia, Dele listens to nothing but Joe’s classical playlist. It’s fantastic and varied and the music playing in his head keeps the training slog in Chantilly at the Stade de Bourgognes interesting. The hotel is beautiful even though he can’t say its name without sounding daft, and he’s passed out in his room, sprawled extravagantly on his bed after a morning session, Shostakovich blaring from his headphones.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vincerò

**Author's Note:**

> This is very self-indulgent and for that I definitely do not apologize. Inclusion of the music inspired by [the_queenmaker](http://archiveofourown.org/users/the_queenmaker/pseuds/the_queenmaker) and her beautiful ["All sing in a minor key"](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6706858) which I read on the regular. I love classical music and the four pieces I have included are simply the four I've been listening to nonstop lately. I built the fic around the songs. 
> 
> Something else I'm not sorry for - my last three fics (including this one) being about Dele and Eric. I need to actually be a functioning member of tumblr so I can talk about them with other enthusiasts. Because these two are killing me.

It’s quiet after the match against Wales. It’s not a somber silence, just a stillness or slow weariness that creeps in after the celebrations and after the sweat begins to dry, the Lens sun leaving blotches of red across most of their faces.

“Looks like I’ve got face paint on,” Gary says with a small, bewildered laugh as he touches his face in a mirror, fingers tenderly poking at his burnt skin. 

“It’s patriotic,” Jamie retorts while doing the same. They slip out of their tops and there’s a distinct tanned line between where their necks end and the shirt begins. 

Kyle swings by and pops between the two of them, adding “Hashtag-Together-For-England” and receiving a shove from Gary. 

The men bustle around, changing at their own preferred pace, some on the phone to loved ones, some chatting in small circles about the match, most humming to themselves. _Don’t take me home, please don’t take me home_. Joe’s usually the pushy one, trying to get everyone to change and pack up quickly and efficiently, but today he’s nowhere to be found. Things feel slightly off – no one’s dancing, no one’s laughing. Daniel’s feet patter to a beat in the showers, but other than that, there’s no melody. 

Kyle plops down next to Eric, whose fingers are deep in his blonde mop, staring down at the floor. Eric’s in his underwear, socks, and boots, which is quite a sight, and Kyle swallows down a laugh before bumping shoulders with Eric affectionately. 

“Hey, Becks. What’s with the dry spell? No wonder goal today.” 

Eric looks up, a bashful, squinty smile on his face. “Quit calling me that.” 

“You’re buzzing over it, don’t lie.” 

“Am not. What do you want.” 

Kyle wraps his arm around Eric and leans over, his head heavy on Eric’s shoulder. Kyle digs in a bit and Eric tries unsuccessfully to edge out of the forced embrace. 

“I just like the look you’ve got going on here, Dier. Really living up to Becks here.” 

“Could have finished undressing if you hadn’t interrupted me.” 

Dele walks out of the showers, towel around his waist and Kyle looks up, as does Eric. Dele waves at them both and Eric waves back, garnering a snicker from Kyle. 

“Gross.” 

“Fuck off, Kyle.” 

Wayne, Marcus, Harry, Jamie, and Daniel all gather for a selfie in the corner but can’t fit everyone in. Kyle offers to take the picture so Dele can take his post next to Eric. 

“Okay, you lot. The aesthetic is all thrown off. Studge, Rashford, you little killer, stand to the left more. Kaneo, in the middle. Wazza and Jamie to the right. That’s the ticket. Most to least attractive.” 

Kyle is promptly shoved backward into Jack and they hardly catch themselves from tumbling over. 

“You should really calm down, mate. Bit active for having a bang average match, aren’t you.” 

“Best mind your business and go change, mate. Oh yeah, that's right. How’s the bench, Wilshere?” 

Everyone’s nearly ready to go when Joe finally comes in, unassumingly holding nothing but a speaker and his phone, still mussed and grass-stained. There’s a tenor voice booming from the speaker that no one immediately recognizes, but Joe stays silent, holding the crackling, vibrating little globular speaker up. With his height, it’s at everyone’s ear and the men pause, look up, turn the showers down to hear. It’s operatic, it soars, it’s not in English. 

“The fuck’s this, Harty.” 

Chris asks, but Danny shushes him. “What language is this?” 

Adam pipes in. “It’s Pavarotti.” 

“That a language?” 

“It’s a person, you twat.” 

Everyone has gathered in a loose circle around Joe, looking on with either curiosity or unease as the voice echoes around the locker room. “It’s _Nessun dorma_ ,” he says, as if that’s supposed to mean something. “ _Vincerò_. It’s Italian. From World Cup 1990.” 

The song rises to meet its climax and Joe holds his hand up to stop the incoming questions. The room is divided between men feeling the song and not feeling it or not quite understanding the point, but all eyes are wide when the big climax hits like a wave. Three _vincerò_ s and everyone inhales, engrossed or disoriented, perhaps all still a bit confused. 

“What’s that mean, _vincerò_?” Marcus asks to break the silence following the orchestral outro of the song. 

“ _I will win_. It’s inspiring. Good anthem for our campaign.” 

“Harty, didn’t know you were into opera.” Raheem gives him stick before breaking into his own rendition of the _vincerò_ s, joined quickly by Daniel, Nate, and Ryan. 

“Were you even born when the 1990 World Cup went on, Harty?” Eric asks. 

“Yes. I was three.” 

“Did Italy even win that World Cup?” 

Joe grits his teeth. “No.” 

“Did England?” 

“No.” Joe replies with increased irritation. As the room begins to clear out, Dele tells Eric to go on without him and stops and politely grabs Joe’s arm, squeezing gently. Joe looks down at him. 

“I liked it. The song. So did the others, they’re just chatting shit. Have you got a classical playlist?” 

Joe’s face softens a bit and he and Dele walk out of the locker room together. 

“I do, yeah. I’ll share it with you on Spotify.” Joe frowns again. “Can’t believe I didn’t shower so I could find a speaker to play that for you ungrateful lot. I mean. We fucking won. Should be a better atmosphere in the locker room than that.” 

“You’re a good mate, Joe. Always trying to pep us up. Can’t help the English being English, though. We could beat Slovakia, I don’t know, eight-nil and top the group and still have something to whinge about. Or be sad about. You know.” 

Dele makes a point of looking at the screens of all the phones and iPods on the bus as he goes to the back to sit with Eric and he definitely catches more than a few lads listening to _Nessun dorma_ or watching videos of Pavarotti, Eric included. 

“You like it, then? You’re soft, Dier.” 

Dele teases as he rests into Eric, pretending he doesn’t notice that Eric wipes his eyes after the third or fourth time of hitting repeat. 

And in the days between Wales and Slovakia, Dele listens to nothing but Joe’s classical playlist. It’s fantastic and varied and the music playing in his head keeps the training slog in Chantilly at the Stade de Bourgognes interesting. The hotel is beautiful even though he can’t say its name without sounding daft, and he’s passed out in his room, sprawled extravagantly on his bed after a morning session, Shostakovich blaring from his headphones. Eric knocks a few times before coming in, as Dele had given him the second copy of his key, and Eric rolls his eyes fondly at the heap of a human being before him, training shorts hiked up around Dele’s thin but solid thighs and shirt brushed up to reveal the strong line of his spine. His light snoring along with the strings of the music makes Eric laugh before Eric sits beside Dele on the bed, gently setting his hand high on Dele’s back, the soft, wicking fabric of the training kit warm. It’s actually quite a lot for Eric to take in – the fabrics of the bed are a stark white, the sun is strongly beaming in through the grand window, and the music. It’s lovely to Eric, whatever it is, and Dele slightly stirs to the side at Eric’s touch, just enough room to Eric to sidle in and lay beside him. Dele still smells like grass and Lucozade and sunscreen – he obviously went straight for a nap instead of the showers like Eric. Eric just watches Dele for a bit, as the song ends and promptly begins again – Dele must have it on a loop. Eric picks up Dele’s phone – it’s _Romance_ from the Gadfly Suite on some Best Classics album Joe must have shown him. But Eric likes it. It’s almost as if the violin makes him notice smaller things about Dele, like how his cheek rests heavily on his wrists as he sleeps and the length of his eyelashes and how comforting it is that Dele’s every inhale and exhale is exactly the same size. It makes it okay that Dele isn’t awake, that he can just take him in because talking and hanging onto Dele’s every word sometimes makes that hard. 

The song ends again and Eric remembers he came here to see if Dele had eaten lunch, but when it starts again, he’s lost. Dele whines in his sleep and turns his back to Eric, who laughs and rests his forehead between Dele’s shoulderblades, hand resting on Dele’s narrow hip. Dele hums and sidles back a bit to rest in the curve of Eric, Dele’s back meeting Eric’s chest, thighs meeting thighs. 

“I haven’t showered, get off me.” 

Dele says with a sleepy laugh, speaking a little too loudly with his headphones on but not moving away from Eric. 

“I like this song you’ve been listening to for twenty minutes.” 

“You’ve been here for twenty minutes? What’ve you been doing?” 

Dele flips over to face Eric, pushing his floppy blonde hair back and Eric stretches into the touch. 

“If you really like this, you’d like _Méditation_. It’s even better.” 

“I was looking at you. You look good like this.” 

“Now I know my music’s got you sentimental. One listen and you’re watching me sleep.” 

“Put on the other song. _Méditation_.” 

Dele nods, their faces so close their noses nearly touch. He takes the headphones out and lets the song play on his phone, the tinny, dim quality of the worn out iPhone of no matter to either of them. 

“You know how proud of you I am for your goal. And for how well you’re doing here. Don’t know if I told you in so many words, but.” 

“I know you are.” 

Dele smiles so wide and he moves forward a bit to rest his forehead on Eric’s. 

“Was wondering when you were going to stop playing hard man and come cuddle with me, Diet.” 

“This definitely isn’t cuddling. You’re unshowered, there’s classical music playing, it’s before noon. Way more sophisticated than that. Practically a team building exercise.” 

The song ends and Eric reaches to replay it before easing Dele’s arms around his own neck. Eric’s arms slide around Dele’s waist and pull their bodies flush. 

“You do this with the other lads, too? Team building exercises, I mean?” Dele asks breathlessly as Eric’s mouth ghosts around his own. Eric’s fingers meet the small of Dele’s back underneath his shirt and Dele inhales sharply, eyes shut and head limply falling forward a bit. 

“Only a few of them. But you’re my favorite partner.” 

“Bit cheesy, innit. Bit sappy for a serious lad such as yourself.” 

Instead of retorting, Eric kisses him softly, softly but the kiss lingers; there’s no rush from either of them. Circuits short somewhere in Eric’s brain at how warm and pliant Dele is in his entirety – his mouth, how his reedy legs braid into Eric’s and how his arms snake to cradle Eric’s head as if he needs cradling. As if he’s not the older and colder one. 

“Your fault I’m this way. You make me like this.” 

“It’s the music.” 

It’s changed to Liszt, something gentle and consoling, and they kiss again and again, each one melting into the other, Eric keening as Dele’s mouth moves to his ear and his neck, Dele’s hands moving languidly under his shirt. Eric tries to do the same but Dele assures him he’s too sweaty and there will be plenty of time for that later. So he lets Dele, and he knows he’s already won something, even if Slovakia or the rest of the tournament doesn’t go well. He’s definitely won something.

**Author's Note:**

> Puccini - Turandot, Act III: Nessun dorma (the version mentioned is performed by Pavarotti, listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VATmgtmR5o4))
> 
>  
> 
> Shostakovich - The Gadfly Suite, Op. 97a: Romance (listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QDW4VJGKLAQ))
> 
>  
> 
> Massenet - Thaïs, Act II: Méditation (Romance was definitely inspired directly by this piece, listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CPkBoTOIyi4))
> 
>  
> 
> Liszt - 6 Consolations, S. 172: No.3 in D Flat Major (listen [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MfDmUk7ie6s))


End file.
